Without The Moonlight
by Sherlock221
Summary: Sherlock and Victor have always been close. Even after Victor's death, but as John comes into Sherlock life, things start to change.
1. Prologue

Victor is pouting, his discontentment permeating the air from the dark corner of the room. Sherlock can feel the uneasiness the moment he strides into his room.

"Problem?" Sherlock asks, as he quietly shuts the door to his room. Victor emerges into the dimmed light and Sherlock can now see the worried lines painted across his face.

"Who is he?"

"No one."

"Are you sure? Because I'm almost positive I haven't seen you this happy since the last time you got high."

Sherlock ignores the comment, slowly undressing for bed, the exhaustion from the day washing over him. "Worried you're being replaced?"

"He killed a man for you, Sherlock."

"Comparing your shared successes with John, already? That's low, even for you."

Victor runs a hand through his hair in frustration, glaring at him.

"I just met him, Vic. He's my flatmate. A necessity. That's all."

"You're lying."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, throwing himself down onto the bed. For next couple of minutes, the room in silent and Sherlock can feel the tension between them. He pushes himself up on his elbows and smile at Victor, "Coming?"

Victor sighs, glaring at Sherlock as he acquiesces. They lay face to face, each man not sure what to say.

"He's a good man," Sherlock finally says quietly.

Victor ignores his comment. "I wish I could feel you," he whispers, placing a pale hand against Sherlock's chest.

"I know."

"That would have been the part where you said, 'me too.'"

"Mm." Sherlock lets his eyes slide shut, swearing he can feel Victor's smile against his skin.

* * *

 _Victor had appeared in Sherlock's bedroom two days after he died._

 _There were no feelings of fear, just surprise and gratefulness. Both had thought they would never see each other again. Of course, that's what happens after one dies. It was...interesting. Almost felt like another case to be solved. But for whatever reason Victor was here, Sherlock did not want to solve this mystery. He wanted it to last._

 _Sherlock was close to tears as Victor strode towards him lifting his hand to place it against Sherlock's cheek._

 _He didn't feel a thing. No pressure, no soft and warm hand. There was only a small gust of cold air that brushed against his cheek. It wasn't fair. Victor appeared to be a solid, living human being, but neither could feel the other and Sherlock wanted to scream in frustration._

 _"Am I going insane?" Sherlock whispered, afraid that if he spoke too loudly, Victor would dissipate into thin air._

 _"I don't know, Lock," Victor replied, sadness creasing the corners of his eyes. "But I'm so fucking happy to see you again."_

 _"Will you stay?" The back of Sherlock's eyes pricked at the memory of the last time he had seen Victor. At least the wound was missing from his perfect form._

 _"For as long as I can, love."_

* * *

Sherlock only sees him at night. When his body is illuminated by the moonlight shining through his bedroom window. Sherlock doesn't ask him what he does during the day and Victor doesn't tell him.

They always sleep together, lying face to face, just like it used to be.

"What does it feel like?" Sherlock had asked on the second day of Victor's return.

"Dying?"

Sherlock had shivered and pushed himself closer to the chilled air in front of him. "No. Now."

"I feel alive." Victor had turned to lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. "I feel alive," he repeated.

"That doesn't make any sense."

Victor had turned his head and smiled at him. "I'm with you again."

* * *

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	2. Faltering

Victor is bristling in the dark corner of Sherlock's room again. This is not unlike every night, but there is someone else present tonight as well. John.

Sherlock stares at him as a wet cloth is suddenly placed on Sherlock's forehead and a warm palm lays flat against his heaving chest.

Victor takes a step forward, concern and the desire to join Sherlock, to take care of him, is written all over the man's face. It would be unwelcome. Cold air would not be helpful while the shivers from fever wrack through his body.

"You'll feel better in the morning, Sherlock. I promise," John says, with a tight smile, the concern on his face making his forehead wrinkle.

It is a horrible feeling, the confusion. Wanting both. The warm hand on his chest feels amazing, but Sherlock would give anything to have Victor in bed with him. Sherlock has to make him know that.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, looking directly towards Victor and attempting to use his tired, unfocused eyes to convey everything that he can't say.

"What could you possibly have to be sorry for?" John questions, his voice sounding distant in Sherlock's muddled ears. To John, he must look delirious, out of his mind with fever. Maybe he is, but the message must have come across to Victor because he gives him a thin, worried smile and steps back once more.

"Want me to stay with you?" John asks, brushing sweaty curls back from his forehead.

Sherlock nods.

He is cold in a warm bed that night.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always welcome 3


	3. Impact

"You almost died?" Victor whispers viciously, lips barely visible by how tightly he's pushing them together. Holding back anger.

They're standing in the kitchen glaring at one another. Sherlock should have known Victor would hear the tense fight between him and John only moments ago in the hallway.

"It was nothing. John is known to over exaggerate," Sherlock says with a slight smile, trying to keep the peace. But Victor refuses to meet his gaze now, instead his eyes are fixed on the stitches close to his hairline.

"How can you be so careless?"

"John was with me."

"And he's your protector now, is he?"

"It's not your job anymore," Sherlock growls.

Victor thrust his hand against a beaker sitting on the table. Both men stare in shock as it falls to the floor and crashes around Sherlock's feet.

Almost immediately, the bedroom door upstairs is thrown open and footsteps are heard barreling down the stairs. John runs into the kitchen not even taking a second to look around the room, before he runs to Sherlock's side. Sherlock puts a hand on John's arm just before his feet reach the glass.

Victor growls from behind him.

"Careful."

"Shit, Sherlock. You ok?"

'What? Yes, of course. Slipped from my hand," Sherlock says, dumbly waving towards the shattered cup.

"It sounded like it was thrown."

"I must have hit my hand against it, knocking it off the counter. Maybe it hit the table?" Victor snickers and Sherlock turns slightly to glare at him.

John follows his gaze. "Are you...sure you're ok? Feeling lightheaded from earlier?"

"John."

"Alright." John runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "Just be more careful next time, yeah? Need help?"

"No. Of course, John."

"Right. Goodnight, then."

* * *

Later, Sherlock is lying on his side with Victor's arms wrapped around him from behind. He feels nothing, but the air surrounding him is cold. He is almost asleep when Victor whispers in his ear.

"I died as I lived, Sherlock. For you. Don't you dare take that away from me."


	4. Withdraw

Sherlock has been missing for five days. Five long, horrible days.

John is distraught.

A few hours ago John had received a call from a man apparently named Greg. He'd stared at Sherlock's chair while on the phone, unknowingly glaring at Victor.

No news. When he ended the call, John stood up, paralyzed in the middle of the sitting room.

"Where is he, John?" Victor had screamed at him, not caring whether or not he will be heard. "Where is Sherlock!?"

And it's as if John could hear the veracity of his voice because he shouted in frustration and threw his cup against the wall, breathing hard and glaring at the liquid slowly dripping down the wall.

"God, Sherlock. Where the hell are you?" John mutters and falls breathlessly into his armchair.

Now Victor watches him as he paces around the room glaring at everything that mildly resembles Sherlock. He can't handle being reminded that Sherlock is not there.

John's phones rings again and this time Victor cannot bear to listen in to the conversation. John scrambles to answer and before Victor can walk away he hears a voice shouting, " We've found him! "

Relieve courses through him as he stares at John, but the man doesn't smile. In fact, he looks more upset than he had before the phone call as more information is revealed.

"Fuck!" John shouts after ending the call and shoving his phone into his jeans. He is looking around frantically, but Victor can't tell what he's looking for. John stumbles his way to the coat rack by the door and right as he is about to reach for his coat, his knees give out.

"He's alright. Sherlock's ok," John says to himself, staring at his knees and clearly trying to calm his frantic breathing. Victor falls into the chair and stares at him. He's alright.

* * *

A few days later Sherlock is released from hospital with a graze from a gunshot on his thigh and a litany of minor injuries marring his body. He barely looks at Victor with his weary, bruised eyes as he limps into his bedroom. Victor smiles and takes a step toward him, but the door is pushed open a bit more as John walks into the room as well.

He stays by Sherlock's side for the next seventy-two hours.

It's agony. Watching John watch Sherlock.

* * *

Finally, they are alone tonight. Victor stares at the ceiling from his spot on the bed. Sherlock is sat on the edge of his side, fiddling with the bandages around his arm and it feels as though he is trying to stay as far away from him as he can. It's different and Victor is trying his best to ignore the tense air that swirls between them.

Something has changed between him and Sherlock, he can feel it in every brief second they spend together.

Sherlock will barely look at him and it's in the way Sherlock flinches when Victor reaches out to him that tells him everything he needs to know.

"He kissed you."

Silence.

"After you had been found."

"Yes," Sherlock says calmly. He turns and tries desperately to connect eyes with Victor for the first time in almost a week, but Victor refuses to meet his gaze, not wanting to see the emotion in them. Did he want it to happen? If he looks at Sherlock now, he'll see the answer in his eyes so he doesn't. He can't.

The dip in the bed disappears before the lamp is switched off. "Nothing is fair in life, Victor," Sherlock, before walking out his bedroom door.

"Nor in death," Victor whispers into the darkness.


End file.
